“What luck,” he said.  “Scarlett, I think.  We met at Wilderleigh.  Have you such a thing as a match about you?”

Hugh felt in his pockets.  He had not one.

“Never mind,” he said, opening the door.  “I’ve plenty inside.  Come in.”

Hugh went in first, extricating his key.  Captain Pratt followed, murmuring, “Nice little dens, these.  A pal of mine lives just above—­Streatham.  You know Streatham, son of Lord—­”

The remainder of the sentence was lost.

The door opened straight into the little sitting-room.

A woman in deep mourning rose suddenly out of a chair by the fire and came towards them.

“Hughie!” she said.

It was Lady Newhaven.

It is probable that none of the tableaux she had arranged were quite so dramatic as this one, in which she had not reckoned on that elaborate figure in the door-way.

Captain Pratt’s opinion of Hugh, whom he had hitherto regarded as a pauper with an involved estate, leaped from temperate to summer heat—­blood-heat.  After the first instant he kept his eyes steadily fixed on Hugh.

“I—­er—­thank you, Scarlett.  I have found my matches.  A thousand thanks.  Good-night.”

He was disappearing, but Hugh, his eyes flashing in his gray face, held him forcibly by the arm.

“Lady Newhaven,” he said, “the porter is inexcusable.  These are my rooms which he has shown you into by mistake, not Mr. Streatham’s, your nephew.  He is just above.  I think,” turning to Captain Pratt, “Streatham is out of town.”

“He is out of town,” said Captain Pratt, looking with cold admiration at Hugh.  “Admirable,” he said to himself; “a born gentleman.”

“This is not the first time Streatham’s visitors have been shown in here,” continued Hugh.  “The porter shall be dismissed.  I trust you will forgive me my share in the annoyance he has caused you.  Is your carriage waiting?”

“No,” said Lady Newhaven, faintly, quite thrown off the lines of her prepared scene by the sudden intrusion into it of a foreign body.

“My hansom is below,” said Captain Pratt, deferentially, venturing, now that the situation was, so to speak, draped, to turn his discreet agate eyes towards Lady Newhaven.  “If it could be of the least use, I myself should prefer to walk.”

Now that he looked at her, he looked very hard at her.  She was a beautiful woman.

Lady Newhaven’s self-possession had returned sufficiently for her to take up her fur cloak.

“Thank you,” she said, letting Captain Pratt help her on with it.  “I shall be glad to make use of your hansom, if you are sure you can spare it.  I am shocked at having taken possession of your rooms,” turning to Hugh; “I will write to Georgie Streatham to-night.  I am staying with my mother, and I came across to ask him to take my boys to the pantomime, as I cannot take them myself—­so soon,” with a glance at her crape.  “Don’t come down, Mr. Scarlett.  I have given you enough trouble already.”